‘He is not to be spoken to like a dog,’ Father O’Connor said.
‘Are you questioning my authority?’
‘Not your authority. Your manner. Your cruelty.’
‘Do you wish to make a complaint?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Then make it to any quarter you think fit,’ Father Giffley challenged. ‘As for me, I will go on treating you as I feel you deserve.’
‘You have no right to humiliate me.’
‘I am trying to teach you that social disease cannot be cured with buns and cocoa. Until you condescend to live in the world of the parish you serve I will continue to chastise your pride.’
‘I have made my protest,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘and I will leave it at that for the moment.’
He put his hand on the door handle and was about to leave when Father Giffley snapped: ‘One moment, Father.’
He turned round.
‘You have not yet heard what I wanted to speak to you about.’
‘I am sorry,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘I thought you had finished.’
‘You were playing on that foul instrument in the organ loft.’
‘Is that forbidden too?’ Father O’Connor asked bitterly.
‘Tonight it was not fitting.’
‘May I ask why not?’
‘Any of my respected parishioners could tell you why not. The body of the poor boilerman who served us well is lying in the church. Was he too lowly to qualify for your respect?’
Father O’Connor’s face changed.
‘You had forgotten?’ Father Giffley suggested.
Father O’Connor said nothing. He was trapped. It was true. He had forgotten.
‘That is what I wanted to say,’ Father Giffley concluded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Easter Tuesday evening Mary and Fitz moved into 3 Chandlers Court. Their feet on the unfamiliar stairs made an echoing noise and they had to pick their way carefully until a figure holding an oil lamp appeared on the landing above them and addressed her for the first time as Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
‘This is Mrs. Mulhall,’ Fitz introduced.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of laying down a bit of a fire,’ Mrs. Mulhall explained. ‘I thought it would make the room cosy.’
The elderly woman before her looked quiet-natured and good-hearted. There would be a new life, with new friends.
‘You’ll come over later?’ Mary invited.
‘For a little while,’ Mrs. Mulhall agreed, ‘when you’re both rested.’
The living room was bare except for a table, a cupboard, some chairs and a long couch Fitz had bought and repaired in his spare evenings.
They drew this over to the fire.
‘It’s a bit bare, isn’t it?’ Fitz said.
‘It’s home.’
They sat down. The fire in the half-light cast friendly shadows. It was theirs, at least. There would be no more partings, no more reluctant goodbyes, no more being the only person in the whole world. On impulse she kissed Fitz, surprising him. He knew something had moved her deeply and said:
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I thought of a lonely old woman.’
‘Who?’
‘Miss Gilchrist. I wonder if she is still with Mrs. Bradshaw.’
‘What made you think of her?’
‘Just before I left them she was sick and I often sat in front of the fire in her room. She told me to stick to service.’
‘Why did she want you to do that?’
Mary smiled. ‘I think she loved someone years and years ago. And because she never married she consoled herself that being in service in a good house was the best thing, after all.’
‘Have you missed it?’
‘What was there to miss?’
‘Practically everything people fight each other for: good food and comfortable houses.’
Mary looked about her at the room.
‘I think I like this place better.’
‘The pay isn’t quite so good,’ Fitz said.
Mary smiled and said:
‘The duties are lighter.’
‘That’s true. Not so much silver to be polished.’
‘And the meals won’t be such a problem.’
‘No.’
‘But I’ll make up by brushing your clothes every morning.’
‘That won’t be much of a problem either.’
‘Then I’ll mend your broken socks.’
‘That might take longer.’
‘And answer the door.’
‘That seems to settle everything.’
‘You’re satisfied?’
He took her in his arms.
‘How long are you likely to stay?’
‘Until I’m as old as Miss Gilchrist,’ she answered.
After a while he released her and she rose, made a paper spill and began to light the lamp. He watched her. She removed the globe, trimmed the wick and touched it with the flame. Then she replaced the globe. He wondered, as she leaned over to set the lamp on the table, how often in the course of their life together she would go through the same routine. How often would he sit and admire without speaking her dark hair showing its lustre in the lamplight and worship her face that was fine-boned and beautiful. It made him sad to have so little to offer to her, to think even that little should be so insecure.
‘Your friend Pat is comical,’ he heard her saying. Fitz noticed that they had reversed moods and thought of the two figures on some novelty clocks he had seen in Moore Street. When one came out the other went in; he remembered from childhood that they were fine-weather-and-foul-weather-never-seen-together.
‘He has great heart,’ he agreed.
Pat had acted as best man. He paid for a cab from the church to the Farrells’ cottage and after breakfast he had pressed a sovereign into Fitz’s hand. Fitz, wondering at his sudden wealth, guessed that he had had a stroke of unusually good luck at the horses. But he had found no opportunity to ask.
‘Is he wild?’ Mary asked.
‘A bachelor and fancy free.’
‘He seemed to have plenty of money.’
It’s some windfall or other,’ Fitz said, ‘most of the time he hasn’t a cigarette.’
‘He needs a woman’s hand,’ Mary said. ‘You’d think he’d have a girl friend.’
‘He has,’ Fitz said. And then, as an afterthought he added, ‘A sort of a one.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A girl named Lily Maxwell. When Pat knocks himself about in a spree he usually ends up in her room. She looks after him.’
At eight o’clock the Mulhalls arrived and by nine they had been joined by Mr. and Mrs. Farrell. Joe came later and later still Pat surprised them by arriving in presentable shape. He had a heavy parcel which he immediately deposited in a corner, and a bottle of whiskey which he pressed into Fitz’s hands.
‘There’s my welcome,’ he whispered. The local publican had loaned glasses. Fitz offered port to the women. The men played their expected part by pressing them and coaxing them. Mrs. Farrell gave in first, remarking that she would be a long time dead. Mrs. Mulhall also agreed, on condition that Mary did likewise. When everybody had a full glass Pat proposed the toast of the bride and groom and after that there was no further reluctance.
An hour later Rashers paused on the steps and looked up at the lighted windows. Pat’s voice drifted into the dark street, his song winding past gas-lamps and growing faint and being swallowed altogether in other sounds. He was singing ‘Comrades’.
‘Comrades, comrades ever since we were boys
Sharing each other’s troubles, sharing each other’s joys.’
Rashers, conscious suddenly of the emptiness of the street, looked down sadly at his dog and petted it before going in. Mrs. Mulhall, troubled by some memory or other, wept a little as she listened.
‘That was lovely,’ she said, when Pat had finished.
‘Hasn’t he a grand voice altogether,’ Mrs. Farrell remarked.